In Love and War
by Magic Crafter
Summary: Another LothirielEomer fic, this time beginning with a more indepth scene in the Houses of Healing. Incomplete.
1. Concerning Broken Families

**Disclaimer: **No characters or places belong to me, but rather to Professor Tolkien's estate. As I'm making no money off of them, please don't sue.

**A/N:** This is my second Lothíriel/Éomer fic, except I do truly hope to continue this one, which I always meant to do with the other one. Lothíriel is one of my favorite characters to write with because Tolkien left only her name and heritage. This, of course, is not the only interpretation of her, but I rather think Éomer wouldn't care for a woman who was timid.

She had always wanted to depart from her tedious life in Dol Amroth. The city's people were fixed in the ways of the past. They were too proud of their heritage. The blood of the ancient people of the West and Elvish blood combined in the veins of these Gondorians – or so they liked to think. Etiquette was strict and women were raised separate from men, as if allowing the two genders to mix would mar them, make them less likely to be obedient, quiet, level-headed, and focused on finding a husband. Indeed, they seemed entirely oblivious to the issues at hand – the war raging all around them. Even the men! They seemed as if they should not care at all. For a people so proud, it was preposterous in her eyes that they should sit by and care little what happened to the rest of the world.

Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, daughter of Prince Imrahil, was not fond of such a life. She did all she could to escape it, though often to little avail. She'd been a decidedly disobedient girl, and such defiance had made her stubborn. Neither trait endeared her to her mother (how her only daughter had been born so rebellious, she could never say), but her father hardly seemed to care, even to notice. While his wife snapped that she would never find a decent husband, he went about with everyday life, scarcely troubled.

When her father had been sent for by her uncle, Denethor of Minas Tirith, to come to the White City's aid, she thought it only fitting that she should accompany him. Naturally her mother had been horrified and demanded she come to her senses and see that neither of her parents would allow her to do such a thing. They had gone through several arguments over the matter in which her father had attempted to level her head, rather unsuccessfully.

"Many years have passed since I saw Minas Tirith," She had pointed out, folding her arms. "I know of the dangers. My cousin Boromir has died, and I wish to be there lest Faramir meets the same fate." This must have struck accord with her father, for Imrahil appeared to be truly listening after it was said. Boromir and Faramir were the sons of his sister, who she knew he grieved for even so many years after she had died. To make a complete case, Lothíriel also countered that her modest training in the arts of medicine would make her presence useful, at least, for the Healers in the Houses. In the end, she had won, partially due to her mother's complete exasperation, through which she found herself at a loss to deny Lothíriel and longer.

The War of the Ring and the legends that already swarmed around it had fascinated Lothíriel – it had been so muted, so…hidden in Dol Amroth, and the reality of it hit them with force when they arrived in the White City. News was brought to Imrahil that his brother-in-law had gone half mad, and Lothíriel was aggrieved to hear that Faramir had taken a grave injury as well. His father thought him already dead; indeed, they had not been there long before news of the extent of Denethor's madness reached them. Until the fateful battle on the fields of Pelennor, she had sat in silent reverie, despondent for her lost family. Perhaps, she had ended up thinking, it would have been better to stay in Dol Amroth after all. 

On that day, Théoden, King of Rohan, had been slain. His niece Éowyn had taken the life of the dreaded Witch King of Angmar with bravery Lothíriel envied. She was brought to the Houses and laid alongside Faramir. It was then that Lothíriel was called upon to help, and then that she met Éowyn's brother, Third Marshal of the Mark, Éomer. He was next in line for the throne of Rohan – no, he was the king of Rohan, even if there had yet to be a coronation. As far as she could tell, and from what she had been told, he was handsome, even if his personality was somewhat reserved.

There was something that fascinated Lothíriel about Éomer of Rohan. She hadn't any idea what it was – but she did not bother to ponder it. They shared several similarities – she, too, had just lost her uncle, and her cousin, and someone else near to her heart was lying in the bed just beside his sister. However, Faramir seemed to be consuming all her thoughts. She sat in the corner beside his bed, her fingers entwined with his, clinging to it as though it would keep her badly-wounded cousin from slipping away from the world. Aragorn had seen to him first, assured her that he would not die…and yet she did not feel his words. Boromir's death had come so suddenly and tragically, she did not know how she would bear it if Faramir was lost to her, too. Despite never knowing either cousin particularly well (not only was she a girl, but almost twenty years their junior) they were far more tolerable and alive than her brothers. The death of one was horrible. Losing both seemed unimaginable indeed. 

Besides, why should Éomer, lost in his own grief, care about her? Unlike his lovely, bold sister, who seemed radiant even in the pallor of her illness, she sat in the shadows, dark hair partially masking her face, paying little mind to anything but Faramir. She was just another woman, and the day was still dark for all of Middle-earth. The Ring of Power had not yet been cast into the fires of Mount Doom. The day was not yet won. Winning it at all seemed a distant dream. When Aragorn moved away to help another, Lothíriel glanced up. He had told Éomer much the same that he had told her: that Éowyn would recover. And yet her recovery seemed much more likely than Faramir's.

Her eyes lingered on the new king for a moment more than they should have. He had kept silent the whole time he had been in the Houses, as far as Lothíriel could tell, though she had managed to whisper some words of love and comfort, useless as they might have been, to Faramir. Something compelled her to change her efforts slightly, try to find a word of solace for Éomer instead, but how many words from a strange girl would he listen to when his only living relative was lying there, lingering between life and death? None of her brothers had ever shown many emotions – save for their mischief, at any rate – and they had lacked passion for much anything. Seeing the pain etched on Éomer's handsome face, albeit through shadows, was at once heartbreaking and somewhat endearing. She felt a fool indeed for admiring a man who was obviously in quite a state, when he had other things to be worried about, such as her own potentially dying cousin and indeed the fate of her country, of Middle-earth itself. The fields of Pelennor had been covered in blood, but the war was not yet over, the evil undefeated.

As she watched, he reached out to touch Éowyn's cheek, to brush a lock of gold away from her closed eyes, murmuring some endearment gruffly in his own language. Even through that barrier, it was clear that a note of desperation lingered in Éomer's voice.

Lothíriel abruptly turned her gaze back upon her cousin, and she squeezed his hand a little more tightly, if that was possible. Perhaps her people's oblivion to the war had been a blessing, even if she had been disgusted. What would happen to her brothers, bland and annoying as they were? And her father, what of him? She could honestly not picture a world without any of them. Though she was not a woman prone to many tears, the idea of such a hopeless cause was enough to make anyone, any woman, at least, upset. There was probably a good reason they didn't let women engage in war. Releasing Faramir's hand, she instead moved closer to him and hid her face in his shoulder, mercifully muffling her sudden onslaught of tears.

Her surprise almost turned to fright a few minutes afterwards, when she heard an unfamiliar voice speak behind her. "Aragorn believes his is not injured fatally. He feels there is hope for Faramir." She had no idea who this stranger was, but the princess couldn't have been more mortified when she scrambled away from her cousin to discover that it was Éomer. He shouldn't be comforting her; he had enough to worry about. To her further shock, Éomer unhooked the grey cloak he wore and draped it around her shoulders.

"Thank you," She said finally, managing a very slight smile. Her eyes wandered from him to Éowyn and then back. "Did he not the same about your sister, my lord? From what I have heard of her, she is a stronger woman than most." She briefly looked away from Éomer and touched Faramir's cheek, sighing. "It is a cruel war indeed if it robs me of both my cousins." Perhaps it would sound selfish, for he had lost Théodred, but she was hardly mindful of that. He had startled her well enough that she was lucky to have regained her composure at all, though she did not like to think of herself as a flighty woman.

The smallest of smiles lit Éomer's face for a moment, and his eyes, too, found their way back to his sister, as if he was debating returning to her side. "He did…and yet no matter her strength, her wound seems grievous to me." A moment more passed, and then he looked rather puzzled, and she could only conclude that he did not know who she was referring to when she said "my cousins".

Of course, he hadn't any idea who she was; she might as well have been another healer, save for her great grief over her cousin's injuries. Éomer had not even noticed her before. He would certainly not be blamed for neglecting her identity. She wasn't sure it would be polite to simply inform him; it didn't really matter in the first place, did it? Of course, it would have been curious if some strange girl from the City had been allowed in to sit with Faramir, but that was beside the point. She paused, considering what to say. She had an urge to mention her own uncle, though it would no doubt be an unkind word about him. Denethor had never been her favorite family member – indeed, but for marrying her father's sister and being the father of both her cousins, he was hardly a family member at all.

"Your uncle died with honor," Lothíriel commented, a pained look on her face as she gazed at Faramir's pallid features. "Though perhaps mine was too old to fight, it is a dark day when a Steward of Gondor takes his own life through madness." Perhaps the days of the Stewards were numbered – if they did, somehow, make it out of the war, Aragorn would most certainly be crowned king. It was clear people accepted him, indeed, that people trusted and appreciated him. Perhaps it was a little more shameful that she was willing to so openly criticize her own uncle, but Imrahil had never been particularly fond of his brother-in-law in the first place. Though news from Minas Tirith had not been particularly consistent, they had heard from the White City often enough to know of some of the relationship between himself and his sons; none of it had ever been very pleasant.

When Éomer's expression darkened, she bit her lip. Obviously she had done him a blow that she had not intended, and for that Lothíriel felt strangely bad, as though she ought to make it up to him. His grief was as great as hers, if not greater – had he not lost his parents, too, at a young age? – and she had hardly wanted to upset him any further. "My uncle died nobly defending your land; you ought to respect him," He snapped, his voice so low it was almost a growl. She had the grace to look shame-faced, and clutched the cloak a little more tightly about her.

"My intention was never to speak ill of your uncle, my lord, but rather of my own. From what we have heard here, Denethor's last days had become dark indeed." Lothíriel sighed and pushed another strand of hair behind her ear. Théoden had once been consumed by darkness as well, but Gandalf had been his salvation. There had been no saving Denethor.

The further establishment of her kinship with the late Steward finally seemed to spark his interest. Éomer seemed to have relaxed once she apologized, and now neither Faramir nor Éowyn had the attention of either of them. Nervously, almost afraid of what he might say, she ran a hand through her dark hair, a habit from childhood, causing some of it to tumble into her eyes. Lothíriel felt irked by this typical reaction more than she normally was and tossed her head with annoyance to clear her gaze again. He had noticed none of this, or if he had, chose to keep silent. A time passed that seemed awkwardly long, but Éomer was the one to break the silence, saying, "You are Denethor's kin? I was aware of only his sons, and Imrahil."

If her father had yet to mention his sons to the world, he had certainly failed to inform anyone of his only daughter. "I am – I was his niece. Imrahil's daughter. My name is Lothíriel."

Had laughter been appropriate in the Houses at the time, she might have laughed as he attempted to pronounce her name, more to himself than anything, but she only smiled. When Éomer finally gave up, he, too, smiled albeit a little ruefully. "I doubt your father brought you into such danger willingly, but I cannot understand why you would desire to come." Éomer's eyes traveled across the room to his unconscious sister once more. "Boldness in women puts them in harm's way more than it serves them well."

Lothíriel had never expected to be compared to Éowyn. She may have been slightly rebellious, it was true, not content to live a life of separation and embroidery, of focusing on improving her manners and impressing a wealthy man to be her husband. However, she would never have such courage as his sister obviously possessed. Already she fretted over the battles that were surely still to come and what they would mean for her family. Riding into battle herself would never have crossed her mind. She was, if anything, a healer, not one to willingly be a part of causing others harm. Of course – the same might be said of Aragorn, who was obviously all too fierce a warrior...but Aragorn was a man.

"My father was not pleased. He did not, nor do I imagine he does even now, want me here," The princess admitted, trying to seem nonchalant. "I insisted – I told him that I should be here lest anything befell Faramir." Her voice caught unexpectedly and she swallowed hard. That had been an ominous prediction that had ended up the truth, and grievously so. "I had not hoped to be accurate, only to accompany him to Minas Tirith.. I would hardly label myself as courageous as your sister. But it would be more dangerous to send me home. If the worst should befall Middle-earth, I would scarce be safer behind the walls of Dol Amroth than those of Minas Tirith."

This Éomer seemed to agree with, at least, for he smiled grimly in return. "Then you are to remain in the City when the men depart?"

Though she expected that had been made obvious by that time, she nodded patiently, wondering for what must have been the thousandth time why he should be showing such interest in what happened to her. Éomer and Lothíriel had been strangers but a few minutes earlier.

The young man paused, with a thoughtful expression on his face once more. "Should she wake, when I am gone – might you be a companion to my sister as well as your cousin?" By the tone of Éomer's voice, he felt foolish asking such a question, but Lothíriel felt somewhat flattered.

"It would be a pleasure," She assured him.

"And, lest she gives you trouble, you might tell her that I have gone with the army," Éomer added, frowning.

Honestly, she could hardly see Éowyn offering her any trouble upon awakening. Of course, she would probably be disappointed she could not ride out with her brother and the rest of the army – well, armies. But how well could she escape the Houses so soon after recovering from a wound nearly fatal, going unmissed? It was nigh impossible. She said nothing on the matter, only nodded.

All of a sudden, another young man stepped into the Houses. He glanced first at Aragorn, still bent over someone, then at Éomer, and finally at Lothíriel. "Excuse me, my lord, but your presence and yours, Lord Aragorn, has been requested Prince Imrahil."

The situation became all the more awkward for the pure reason that she hadn't any idea how to say farewell to a man she scarcely knew in the first place. She smiled as best she could, and Éomer cleared his throat. "You have my thanks then, princess." Apparently he wasn't willing to struggle with her name. He turned to go, and she felt an unexpected stab of regret to see him going. It seemed he would leave the Houses entirely before she could say anything in parting.

It was then that Lothíriel remembered that he had left his cloak with her. "My lord!" She stood and almost ran to catch up with him. "You will have need of it more than I," Lothíriel assured him, pulling the warm material away from her shoulders and holding it out for him to take. "But I thank you nonetheless."

As he took it, Éomer's hand brushed slightly against her own, and then, too quickly for her to name the near-giddy feeling that had run through her at his touch, he was gone. Lothíriel stood in the doorway of the Houses, a cool breeze making her wish she had not returned the warm cloak, staring after him for several minutes. Despite herself, the princess found herself wondering bitterly whether she or Éowyn would ever see the handsome king of Rohan again.


	2. Many Fears and Many Pleas

**A/N:** This chapter is pretty short; I would have written more, but there's just not enough angst to go around for a whole six or seven pages on Word. Hopefully it's dramatic enough to make up for what it lacks in length.

Irony: This is published just in time for Professor Tolkien's birthday, even if I hardly did him justice. Happy Birthday, Professor!

**EDIT:** I had to take out something that was very, very non-canon. My mistake, and my apologies.

**Disclaimer**: See previous chapters: I own nothing.

The hours that passed after Éomer's departure felt all the more endless to Lothíriel, who was now accompanied only by the constant visits of silent Healers, shaking their heads and looking sadly at one another. Clearly they were unsure of Aragorn's optimistic prognosis for both Faramir and Éowyn, though of the two their concern was naturally greatest where the heir to the Stewardship was concerned. They also wondered at the fact that Imrahil's daughter had nothing better to do on any given day than sit constantly at her cousin's bedside. It would be different, they reckoned, had he shown any signs of improvement whatsoever.

The comments of the Healers that would have grated the young woman's nerves in a normal situation seemed to pass by her completely, leaving her nonplussed and perhaps even ignorant of them altogether. Strange indeed that she should be so much unhappier following the departure of a man neither known nor loved by her – but Lothíriel's reasoning was fairly simple, not that anyone had asked her to give it. Not only was her father involved in whatever gathering had been arranged, but she knew in part, if nothing more, the fate of those involved in said council. They would decide whether or not they were to truly go to war and depart Minas Tirith to face the Shadow in its own realm. Her heart felt heavy with the knowledge that such brave men would certainly feel compelled to do such a rash, even foolish, thing.

Had there been much sunshine at all, it would not yet have been dusk, but it felt as though it was much later in the day due to the blackness in the skies of Middle-earth. "My lady," One of the Healers said, softly, managing only to startle her a bit. Lothíriel looked up at her, trying not to express her impatience, and only managing a weak smile though she did attempt at the same time to seem friendly. "Your father requests you, my lady, for a moment only."

Finally! Despite knowing Imrahil would have only grave news for her, the princess looked more interested than she had even in her earlier conversation with Éomer. She thanked the nameless Healer softly, glanced back at her cousin for a moment, and all but ran to the door of the Houses, stepping out into a surprisingly cool afternoon's wind, and again found herself distressed that she had returned the king of Rohan his cloak. Lothíriel wrapped her arms around herself in a tight embrace, though it was a feeble way to keep the chill away. Her father's face was grim and unsmiling and he looked as though he never wished his daughter to learn of the lords' chosen course; his daughter's smile did not warm him.

After a long, uncomfortable pause, Imrahil stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders, heaving a cheerless sigh. "My daughter – I must bid you farewell. We ride for Mordor."

Lothíriel paled considerably and her expression moved suddenly from surprise to horror and distress. When Imrahil saw this change, he wore an expression of mild astonishment.

"Father! What insanity is this? If you ride to Mordor, all of you – " Her voice caught and she found that she was unable to finish her sentence. To her great displeasure tears filled her eyes. She shot an angry glance at Éomer, lingering by his horse and then back at her father. "We may have defeated them here, but surely going to the Dark Lord's door will be a death sentence for all who ride out!"

Why was she reacting so vehemently to this news? She had, after all, expected them to do something comparably imprudent. Indeed, Lothíriel had even believed they might do something along the lines of confronting the Enemy in close proximity to Mordor. But whatever misgivings she had had about her father's plans, and those of the rest of them, to hear it so brutally confirmed was a crushing blow – more so than she would have liked to admit. The fact that he made no immediate reply to her concern only worsened the fear in her heart (though perhaps "fear" was not entirely suitable to describe what thoughts raced through her mind.)

Imrahil had never expected her to voice her opinions so, despite how rebellious she had been in the past. "Do you not see, Lothíriel? No matter the danger, something must be done to keep the Dark Lord at bay, to protect Gondor and Rohan and all the other peoples of Middle-earth. Our armies are the only hope they have."

Éomer looked tempted to reiterate this, but only nodded gravely instead, probably thinking of his injured sister lying in the Houses and did not want Lothíriel doing something just as ill-advised as she had.

At the moment, the princess was hardly paying much attention to Éomer, though if she had been, perhaps she would have found his concern odd. She might indeed have found it odd that he watched her with a strange look in his eye, akin to the look that had been there when he had been watching over the unconscious Éowyn at her bedside. Instead, despite being still upset and rather angry as well, Lothíriel must have realized there was very little she could do about the situation. The men had made their choice, and there could be no changing it. With one hand she wiped the tears a little viciously away from her eyes and the, certainly unexpectedly, threw her arms around her father's neck. "Come home to us, Father," She pleaded, loud enough only for Imrahil to hear. She then kissed his cheek and drew back several steps.

Imrahil's face lit for a brief moment, a flicker of a smile flashing across his tired features. He kissed his daughter's forehead. "I shall."

The gathered men all turned to go, including him, and it seemed an eternity before they had gone. She was sorely tempted to run after her father, beg him once more to see the truth, but she stood firmly rooted in place until she could no longer see them. Lothíriel couldn't hold back her tears. Thoroughly annoyed by her immature – and, she prayed, premature and unnecessary grief – she at long last went back into the houses, though she spent far more time the remainder of the day gazing out on the city below than paying her attention to her cousin.

The men of Middle-earth and their lords would either return to the White City in triumph, or they would be slaughtered, their blood the first of that spilled among the massacre that would surely face all those who were not already safely in Valinor, or in their graves. Lothíriel shuddered. If the worst befell them, perhaps her father and his companions' ends would be a merciful one.

"Please, Father. Come home," She whispered, her voice lost to the somber silence of the Houses and the evening breeze.

But even if she would not admit it to herself, the men who lingered in her heart and its fears numbered more than simply her father and her brothers. The old saying went that all was fair in love and war – and it seemed both had overtaken Gondor, indeed all the lands of Middle-earth, by storm.


	3. The Telling of Tales

**A/N**: I was at a loss for this chapter, but I could hardly skip these scenes. Do forgive me if the writing isn't the best. Finals, another play, etc., are on my mind right now, but I did want to get something up.

**Disclaimer: **See previous chapters; nothing belongs to me.

The days passed much too slowly for Lothíriel's liking. Each that stretched by felt longer than the last, and though the fields of Pelennor were peaceful and no enemy threatened the White City during the absence of the army, the lack of news from the Host that had ridden out was excruciating. She could no longer use the excuse of sitting silently at her cousin's side, for at long last Faramir's strength – at least the better part of it – had returned to him, as had Éowyn's. They spent much time together in the Houses, and Lothíriel found she was hardly needed any longer, though Éowyn had been glad to know what had become of her absent brother. Faramir on the other hand had not felt so comforted to know that she was in Minas Tirith, and though she could not blame him, the princess was annoyed that very few seemed to think her capable of taking care of herself.

At long last, the victorious Host of Gondor returned to Minas Tirith. It was the beginning of April – or, perhaps it was the very end of March. Lothíriel was far too preoccupied with her joy to make serious note of the date. Either way, she marveled to find that they had been away only a fortnight. Never had that space of time seemed to unbearably long, nor had her father's face seemed so easy to love to her. When the weary lords reached the Seventh Circle and the Citadel, she felt as though she might die with anticipation.

Many had gathered to see their return, but it hardly mattered in Lothíriel's eyes. She knew Éowyn would doubtless be pleased to see her brother, and was not about to admit to herself that she would be equally happy to see Éomer returned safe from battle as she would any of her brothers. Never had she been a girl to let her emotions run away with her – and she did not wish this time to be one of them, even in her joy to see them all again, none having come back with near-fatal wounds like her cousin. Well…both of her cousins, really. Could they not go any more quickly? She wrung her hands together, trying to peer above the crowd to pick out exactly where everyone was in the party, but to no avail.

Five more minutes passed, and it took all her willpower to stand still, though hardly patiently. Despite the fact that her mother would have been horribly ashamed, when the lords, who had abandoned their horses at some earlier time, she rushed forward and threw her arms around her father. All those who had come to watch the return could be watching, but Lothíriel cared very little for what they thought. She had never much appreciated the people of Gondor as a whole, or their opinions, after all. Though he seemed to hesitate at first, Imrahil had put his arms securely around his daughter before she stepped away. He was smiling, and she found the grace to blush a little, though she truly desired to demand what in the world took them all so long. They were busy saving the world, after all.

"Oh, Father. I was so afraid for you," Lothíriel murmured, and he touched her cheek tenderly. He could not have been fearful for himself; it was good comfort that he had a daughter who would concern herself so with his safety. "You must tell me of everything that happened."

She was surprised when Imrahil laughed, and frowned. He shook his head and put an arm around Lothíriel's shoulders. "My daughter, I am weary of conveying tales to eager ears," The prince said, though good-naturedly, and her curiosity only deepened when he glanced at the king of Rohan, who was being embraced by his sister. She hadn't any idea what her father could mean, but she wanted to know, now that he had distracted her from the details of the battle at the Black Gate.

If he was aware of her desire to know what he spoke of, Imrahil made no point of informing her. Seeing his nephew seemed to take his mind off of his daughter, and soon Lothíriel found herself quite alone. Perhaps it would have been better had at least one of her brothers been there for her to occupy her time with and not feel like the only person who had none to greet, though she had already made a show of welcoming her father home. She glanced back at Faramir, who looked pleased that his uncle was so overjoyed for his recovery. As she watched, he called Éowyn to his side, presumably to introduce her to Imrahil.

"My sister appears to have chosen her own companion."

It took Lothíriel a moment to identify the voice as Éomer's, though who else would speak so of his sister without naming her she did not know. She found herself turning again and she smiled. "Yes," She replied, "she has hardly needed me to fill that position."

Faramir finding love was a great cause for her to rejoice, for she knew the death of his brother had affected him far more brutally than it had the rest of the family. He had never seemed to get much affection from Denethor. Lothíriel paused thoughtfully. "I wonder whether any man who loves his sister as dearly as you do would delight in her love causing her to live in a foreign land," She pointed out, thinking that her brothers would surely be glad to be rid of her, though they would be deprived of anyone to tease. Even if she loved them, she would certainly be glad to free herself of _them_.

Éomer considered this, and then laughed; yet his laugh was as reserved as everything about the handsome young king and it made her wonder why he seemingly kept to himself save, probably, in battle. The princess had heard that the Riders of his land were bound as closely as brothers, for they were much fewer than the infantry of Gondor.

"My sister has not perished, and her cheer I have long desired to see again. I shall sorely miss her should she indeed remain in Gondor with your cousin, but I cannot deny her happiness for my own sake," Éomer told her after a moment, and for him it seemed a long speech indeed. His distant personality not only fascinated Lothíriel, but also rather pleased her. Her brothers, and even on occasion her father, could be long-winded and yet say very little with their many words. Such was hardly the case with Éomer, who when he spoke at least seemed to mean every word that came out of his mouth. He was not particularly eloquent, and she doubted very much her mother would care for him, but then her mother in Dol Amroth had very little sway over her in Minas Tirith.

The two of them lapsed into silence once more, and the princess bit her lip thoughtfully, recalling what her father had said earlier about how many tales he had told when the Host had ridden out and how he was, in consequence, weary of telling them. He had given Éomer a pointed look…and surely Éomer would be honest with her. It would, on the other hand, be an awfully forward thing to say, especially to a man she hardly knew.

Her eyes drifted to Faramir and Éowyn once more. She was laughing, indeed glowing. Lothíriel doubted very much she would be much concerned about the boldness of something she said. She admired Éowyn very much, and save for the rash decision she had made to follow he and their uncle into battle, she was very sure that Éomer thought highly of her as well. Why shouldn't she ask? Obviously it concerned her father, and perhaps even herself, though that seemed something of a stretch.

Lothíriel swallowed and said in a rush, "My father spoke of how he related several tales while the Host was gone, to you in particular, and yet he would tell me no more than that. You must forgive me for being curious."

To her surprise, Éomer actually flushed a dull red, and it would appear that he was reluctant indeed to tell her any more than her father had. Lothíriel felt indignant. Did they speak of things only men were supposed to hear? Somehow, she did not think that Éomer would be curious about anything particularly personal that he did not already know. She folded her arms. Days before she had been horribly concerned that they would all meet their death when they rode to Mordor, and now she was unhappy that no one would tell her a minor, inconsequential detail of that ride which could indeed have been the doom of the whole Host of Gondor. How quickly one's mind could move from one subject to another!

Unfortunately, it didn't seem likely she would get an answer out of Éomer any more than she had her father, and Lothíriel couldn't help but be grateful indeed when his sister finally came back to the king's side, noting his shame-faced expression and then glancing curiously at Lothíriel in turn. "What secret have you been keeping, Éomer?" Clearly, she was teasing, though her mood seemed to be significantly better than his. Putting her hand in his, the golden-haired young woman smiled. "I hate to rescue my brother from surely well-deserved embarrassment, but we have things we must discuss."

The tone of her voice hardly made Lothíriel believe she and Éomer would want to "discuss" the same things. If she knew brothers, fathers, or male family members at all, he would want to know exactly why she had put herself in such danger and reprimand her for doing so, while Éowyn probably had other matters (such as Faramir) in mind.

Attempting a genuine smile in return, though she was not appreciative of being deprived of her only source of conversation (albeit, Éomer was hardly a talkative person) Lothíriel searched in vain for something polite or charming to see. "Of course," She finally settled for, and without further ado, Eomer made a slight bow and moved away with Éowyn to speak with her in private. No doubt it was the first time in quite a while that they would be able to do so.

Even as they began to walk, however, Lothíriel found her eyes lingered on Éomer, and she was unable to explain the small smile that she could no better drive away. She didn't even know him. He was a nice young man…but she could say the same for her brothers when they behaved themselves. Honestly, she didn't even know him, and little to nothing about him. If she flattered herself with believing he had been asking after her on their journey to Mordor, which she found difficult, it would appear that he knew quite a lot more about her…but why would he care? If only she could answer her own questions!

Someone cleared their throat from behind her and despite herself, the young woman jumped in surprise. She turned sharply, and almost laughed. "Father!" Why was everyone sneaking up on her of late? Surely she was not simply imagining it.

Imrahil offered a sympathetic but knowing smile to his daughter and reached for her hand, which she placed into his and he gave a gentle squeeze. "I do believe we must talk as well, you and I," He told her. Lothíriel frowned and felt her brow knit slightly. Whatever would _they_ have to discuss, save for when they would make their return to Dol Amroth? It was not as if she was in a hurry, but it might be pleasing to see her brothers safe, annoying as they were, and see her mother comforted by the fact that none of children had been harmed, nor had her husband. What need was there for them in Minas Tirith besides? It had its king, and Faramir had found a love all his own. However, Imrahil said nothing to suggest what he had in mind. Still, the way her father's gaze drifted from her to the king of Rohan who was now barely visible made Lothíriel a little nervous.

She paused, and then grinned very briefly. "Yes, Father, I admit I find myself very curious as to why a man who had lost his uncle and possibly his sister, and who could have been to riding to his own death, could want to know so much of from you." Too late, she realized it sounded a little disrespectful.

Whether he had noticed and chosen to ignore it or simply not detected said disrespect, Imrahil smiled as though he was oblivious. He had enough experience with his wife and even knew his daughter well enough to know that women did not generally find themselves "very curious" about any man who they could care nothing about. Though he was far from assuming anything on her part, Imrahil had lived long enough to know that Lothíriel might be well-served by marriage, or at least the prospect of marrying someone. He loved her dearly and would not willingly see her go from his lands, but it could be best to give her an opportunity to settle down, as it were.

"Perhaps you shall hear the reason then," He said with a small smile. "Come." Imrahil held out his arm and she stepped closer to him, letting her father wrap it around her shoulders. Curiosity was never something she had given into easily, but it seemed there was indeed a first time for everything.


End file.
